


Scars

by Woofemus



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woofemus/pseuds/Woofemus
Summary: Mòrag thinks about scars.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I've shitposted so much that I forgot how to write seriously and this is me trying to get back into that by writing pointless fluff oops
> 
> spoilers for up to around chapter 7

Mòrag has them scattered throughout her body, harsh blemishes upon her skin that look out of place given one of her stature. It doesn't bother her, really. Her scars are the fruits of her training, of how hard she’s worked for everything she’s attained. But they also remind her, too, that no matter how good she thinks she is, there are still moments where she can hesitate with deadly consequences, or there are always circumstances out of her control. 

Still, they don’t look very good, Mòrag thinks with a frown. She traces down a jagged line that runs along her forearm, trying to recall how she even got this one. Was this from a training accident? Or was this from an enemy attack? 

Ah, wait. She remembers now, this was from—

“Lady Mòrag?” 

She startles upright when Brighid’s voice drifts over to her. But it’s too late, because when she turns around, Brighid is already standing there. She hadn’t realized she’d been staring so intently to miss Brighid coming in. 

“Was… I interrupting something?” Brighid asks with a raised eyebrow, and Mòrag can catch the tug at the corner of Brighid’s lips. 

“No, nothing much,” Mòrag answers, pointedly looking away and trying to figure out what she’d even been doing before. Ah, right. She’d been in the middle of undressing, meticulously folding her clothes and getting ready for sleep. Her own top is off, and she’d been ready to put on a shirt that Corinne graciously loaned to her before she got distracted.

“No? But you were staring so intently at your arm.” 

“... how long were you really standing there?” 

“Not that long,” Brighid says with a smile that says otherwise. Mòrag sighs and shakes her head. She wonders why she even tries to hide from Brighid sometimes. 

Brighid steps across the room, thumps against the wood of the floor. She takes a seat next to Mòrag on the bed, and lifts up the arm Mòrag had been staring at. Just as Mòrag had done earlier, Brighid traces down that same line, with two of her fingers. Her touch is much gentler, though, and much warmer. Her arm had been aching with fatigue, and Brighid’s touch is like a balm. 

“What happened here?” Brighid asks in a soft voice that to anyone else, would seem imploring and curious. But Mòrag knows and understands the moods of her Blade better than anyone else, especially when she catches the faint smile twitching at Brighid’s lips. 

“... I don’t remember,” Mòrag lies, rather unconvincingly if Brighid’s smile is anything to go by. 

“Really now,” Brighid comments, rather just as convincingly as Mòrag, but thankfully doesn’t pursue the matter further. 

Or maybe she’s decided to do something else, because Brighid’s fingers are sliding up her arm now, trailing her hands so slowly that it has to be deliberate. 

Mòrag doesn’t speak, but the look she gives Brighid out of the corner of her eye says it all. Not that it does much other than getting a chuckle out of Brighid. 

The fingers trail over her bare shoulder, stopping for just a moment before moving once more, still at that deliberately slow pace, tracing another scar that runs from her shoulder to just above her breast. It’s a thin line compared to the other harsher lines she wears, but this one...

Mòrag’s mood turns somber as she remembers. It’d been during an attack with anti-imperialists, and Mòrag, young with a wild temper that only ignited upon mention of anti-imperialists, had foolishly rushed ahead to deal with them. Back then, she and Brighid had been newly bonded, and Mòrag still didn’t fully understand everything about their bond, or Blades. It'd been sheer chaos, that much Mòrag could recall past the flames, the smoke, gunpowder… 

But when she saw the soldier rushing for Brighid with his bayonet as her Blade was distracted, Mòrag reacted on instinct. 

Brighid had ripped into Mòrag when she woke in the infirmary afterward. “Blades regenerate! I would have been wounded, but I would heal over time without need of arts! But... you! You could have...” 

Mòrag had taken Brighid’s anger, knew Brighid had every right to be upset with her. What Brighid spoke was true, Blades were capable of self-regeneration, but to Mòrag… 

“Brighid, I… I understand, but if you think I could stand by and willingly watch you be hurt… then...” 

Brighid’s anger had dwindled though a wisp of it still remained as she spoke, “You cannot always choose to be noble.” 

Mòrag takes those words to heart. She knows what her Blade means to say, but she’s never believed it to be that. It’s never been about that. 

Brighid leans down then, pressing a kiss to that scar, lingering against it. No doubt she’s remembering the same memory as Mòrag now. Mòrag pulls her close, and relishes the quiet sigh that Brighid makes. When Brighid nudges her, Mòrag takes the hint and lowers them down toward the mattress. 

This is decidedly much better than sitting upright, and Brighid’s idly moving her hand around to trace the other scars upon Mòrag’s body. Her fingers slide across the one on her abdomen, one of her larger ones with jagged edges to it—ah, this one. 

A civilian somehow wandered into the Chansagh Wastes and drew the attention of a Mammut. It’d been sheer luck that she happened to be around the port. Though she’d been fast to tackle them out of the way, her footing had been too awkward to dodge out of its tusks slashing across her. Brighid had been in Gormott at the time so there’d been no shield to bear the brunt of the attack. 

Maybe it’d been a good thing Brighid hadn’t been there that day. She knows Brighid would only get upset again. Even seeing the scar the first time had Brighid… well, she hadn’t been _openly_ furious, but upset all the same. 

_You cannot always choose to be noble_ were words that rang in her mind every time she dashed out to battle, but there’d been nothing noble about acting on instinct. One of her citizens were in danger, and she had to protect them, it was only as simple as that. Noble? Mòrag had only done her duty, as Special Inquisitor, as a member of the Imperial family. 

Hesitation spelled doom. She learned that firsthand when it came to Niall. She could never waver when it came to what she wanted to protect. Though scars upon her body weren’t… very pleasant to look at, Mòrag would bear it all if it meant none would appear on Niall, on Brighid, on any one of her countrymen. 

A firm tap on her sternum makes Mòrag blink. Brighid no doubt sensed her thoughts wandering into solemn territory. Glad that she has Mòrag’s attention once more, Brighid starts to move her fingers again, sliding back down. Brighid’s touches are featherlight, almost like she’s trying to tease, but Mòrag finds herself dozing off instead. They’d had a busy day, especially given after… well, _everything_. In fact, Brighid should be the one who’s resting instead.

Not that Mòrag can find it in her mind to even speak right now, not when Brighid resorts to tracing whimsical patterns upon the muscles of her stomach. One of Brighid’s fingers is insistently sliding down the same spot—ah, that’s another scar, though admittedly a tiny one, gotten from a training session. Mòrag doesn’t even remember how that happened. After resonating with Brighid, she’s stopped recalling how most of her scars formed. At least, the ones that weren’t burns. 

Mòrag can feel her consciousness drifting in and out. It should bother her, how they’re sprawled out across the bed rather carelessly, but for once in her life, Mòrag finds little energy to care for that right now. They’d traveled non-stop ever since Tantal, braved through everything the Spirit Crucible threw at them, and had a hearty dinner made by Corinne at the end of it. And, with Brighid curled up against her as they rest in Fonsett for the night, how can Mòrag even think about doing anything else at this point? 

Brighid murmurs something then. Mòrag hadn’t been quick to catch what she spoke, but her fingers start to move again, higher now. Rather than tracing another scar, they stop at a certain spot. “You’re so silly, you know,” Brighid says suddenly. 

Mòrag frowns, wondering what’s brought this time on. “Am I now?” 

“No, I take that back.” Brighid shakes her head. “Silly is putting it lightly. You might just be the most foolish of all my Drivers.” 

Mòrag’s never been more than confused, until she realizes Brighid’s fingers are actually tracing a certain pattern upon her skin. Ah… this is...

“Did you _really_ consider wanting to implant my core crystal within you?” Brighid asks. She sounds both incredulous and exasperated, which Mòrag doesn’t fault her for. 

Mòrag takes a deep breath. “If… if it could strengthen—” 

Brighid firmly presses down on her skin and Mòrag immediately closes her mouth. They’re no longer in front of the others right now, Mòrag doesn’t need to hide anymore. Yet… 

Mòrag flushes with embarrassment. She realizes, now, how… impulsive she must have been to Brighid, to admit something like that so easily in front of their friends. Envious… that is… one way of putting her feelings, but she knows it runs deeper than that. 

Is it so bad to want to feel closer to Brighid? If there is a way… 

Brighid sighs. “You’re thinking too much about this.”

“I know,” Mòrag answers. She truly does, and yet, she can’t get the idea out of her mind. Even if Brighid’s already expressed her disapproval for it, the idea of having Brighid’s core crystal...

She looks down at herself, trying to imagine just that. Right at her heart, Brighid’s core crystal, pulsing there like a heartbeat. It would look… discomforting, but how would that feel? To know a part of Brighid is also helping keep her alive… 

Actually… Mòrag lets her gaze wander up, to Brighid’s core crystal. Would… extracting it be painful? How would Brighid feel afterward, knowing half of her core crystal is gone from her own body? 

The thought that Brighid might feel incomplete, or it might actually pain her in ways that might never be considered gives Mòrag a sinking feeling. She’d never want that for Brighid… just as Brighid would never want that for her. 

Ah, now she understands Brighid’s feelings. 

“I hope you’re still not thinking about it, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid says suddenly, lightly pinching her skin. Mòrag winces, stifles the yelp that nearly comes out. 

“No, not anymore. I promise I won’t.” 

“If things were grave enough to warrant it…” Brighid starts before she cuts herself off. “As it is, you… we don’t need to do that. I...” she trails off, hesitating, before finishing, voice softer now. “I would much rather you remain the way you are now, Lady Mòrag.” 

Ah. Then that settles the matter. 

“Very well, I understand.” Mòrag shifts so she can bend her head down, press her lips against the crown of Brighid’s head. They remain that way for a while, Mòrag quietly breathing in all of Brighid as Brighid goes back to making nonsensical patterns. Brighid’s doing something with her fingers, adding a little heat to them as she runs them over all over Mòrag’s skin. It feels nice. Brighid’s nice. Mòrag raises her hand to Brighid’s bare back and lets her fingers dance down her skin, enjoying the slight shudder and quiet hum of satisfaction her Blade makes. 

It’s a comfort they’ve both sorely needed after everything that’s happened so far. They’ve had so many close brushes with death already, and things will only continue to grow dangerous. To know that they’re both still here, able to enjoy this moment still together, brings much more relief to Mòrag than she’d realized. 

Eventually, the moment comes to an end. Brighid starts to shift. Mòrag slackens her hold, which might just be a mistake because Brighid pushes herself up into a sitting position. Already, Mòrag is missing her warmth, sighing quietly with disappointment.

“So, Lady Mòrag.” Brighid takes her arm, running her fingertips down the scar there. There’s a half-smile on her face, and Mòrag knows she’s been waiting for this. “Do you remember the story about this one now? I don’t recall you ever telling me.” 

Mòrag wants to tug her arm away but Brighid’s touches are distracting, and they feel too nice for her to actually carry through with that want. Instead, she pretends to think, trying to stall for time. Which isn’t very long, especially not when Brighid takes Mòrag’s hand instead and places it upon her cheek, still stroking her scar all the same. Mòrag’s already curling her fingers to better cup her cheek, thumb caressing Brighid’s face. They share a smile between them. 

This is nice, too, Mòrag thinks. 

And then Brighid raises an eyebrow. Mòrag sighs, glancing away as she starts. 

“When Niall and I were younger and lived in Gormott, we sneaked away from our charges and went into the plains. There was… a tree, and Niall asked if I could climb it. You know how big they get! I tried—I mean, I _did_ , but I fell and broke—”

Brighid laughs. 

Mòrag huffs and takes her hand away as she rolls over. “I was younger and wanted to impress Niall,” she mutters sullenly. Brighid lays down again and pulls Mòrag close, laughing into her shoulder. 

“The scar looks so impressive that I thought it would have an equally impressive story for it. To think that you got this from falling from a tree…” Brighid starts laughing again. 

“... it was huge, and I _did_ get really high. They say I was lucky it was only my arm that got broken,” Mòrag mutters. Brighd laughs harder, and Mòrag’s glad Brighid isn’t facing her to see her pout. Normally, she’d enjoy the sound of Brighid’s laughter, but not at her own expense, especially for something so embarrassing as this. Brighid kisses her neck in apology but she’s still laughing so Mòrag is still sulking. 

Finally, Brighid stops, or at least calms down. Mòrag can still feel her smiling against her skin. Brighid kisses her neck again before moving down, to her shoulder, where she stops to kiss another spot. It’s a bit of an awkward spot, Mòrag thinks, until she remembers she has another scar there. That one’s a burn scar, a slightly darkened patch of skin, gotten from one of their first training sessions, when Mòrag had severely underestimated the intensity of Brighid’s flames, and Brighid hadn't realized how truly stubborn her new Driver was. 

Brighid continues, slowly moving downward, stopping to kiss each scar she can see. Mòrag tries to keep still, tries to remember each mark that Brighid stops at. There’s a long one that runs down the side of her back, she’d gotten that from shielding Niall during an anti-imperialist attack. Once she remembers that, Brighid’s already moved on to the next one, somewhere in the small of her back. This one’s from… this one is from...

Brighid’s making it hard to remember. Actually, Mòrag’s not sure if she even has a scar there. But she is sure that Brighid’s teasing her now, especially when Brighid’s hands start to wander, trailing down her side and making Mòrag start to squirm and hold back her own laughter. 

“You know we’re going to Mor Ardain tomorrow,” Mòrag says in weak protest. Even so, Mòrag stays where she is. 

“Of course,” Brighid says with a hum. She moves back up, pressing a kiss to the back of Mòrag’s neck. Her hands stop, too, but before Mòrag can get impatient, Brighid leans down to press a kiss to just under her jaw. It's hidden but there's another mark there too, a thin line from yet another training accident (Mòrag’s starting to wonder how many of them she actually has.) It’d been only a shallow cut, its placement more surprising than the wound itself. Whipswords were a troublesome weapon to master, Mòrag remembered thinking then. 

Brighid starts to move again, trailing kisses up until she reaches Mòrag’s ear, and whispers, “Shall we go to sleep then?”

“Just get on with it,” Mòrag nearly snaps, and Brighid only laughs again.


End file.
